


I do not care for Darkness

by PreachingtotheQuire



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - SCP Foundation, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Creepyfest, Gen, October Prompt Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 12:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16367801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreachingtotheQuire/pseuds/PreachingtotheQuire
Summary: Agent Bouchard is in pursuit of international thief Jiao Lin, whose targets include more than just works of art.





	I do not care for Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zaniida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Take Care of the Unseen Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16156940) by [Zaniida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida). 



> Many, many thanks for Zaniida for beta reading and giving a crash course in the SPC Foundation universe! A part of the October 2018 Spooky Challenge, and rated Teen and Up for general creepyness.  
> Inspired by Person of Interest S03E14, "Provenance"  
> All mistakes are my own fuzzy fault, and  
> The words are mine, the worlds are not.  
> Enjoy!

John tipped the cup of coffee to his lips and swallowed the cold, bitter dregs. He coughed once, then asked, “Finch, what happened to my coffee?”

His partner swiveled around to look at him and sighed. “I believe that cup has been here since last Tuesday, Mr. Reese. The one you brought with you is up on top of that file cabinet. Did you check for mold before drinking that?”

John grimaced and cleared his throat. “No. But I’m pretty sure I just got enough penicillin to cover the next infected knife wound I get.” He dropped the cup in the trash and walked to the glass work board.

"So, she's the perpetrator." He tapped one of the two photos, then the other. "And he's the victim."

"Not exactly. Stealing an internal component of a person technically isn't murder, especially since Ms. Lin seems to return them after."

"Return them after. After what?"

"That would be the question, Mr. Reese."

~~~

Darkness is subjective, thought Detective Bouchard, steeling himself against it. If a person’s sight has a relatively limited range, the shadows are not so deep, nor the light so incandescent. For a person with an augmented range, however, the darkness can be suffocating, pressing, causing the mind to retreat and the emotions to deaden.

Bouchard did not care for the dark.

The hospital seemed to slide in and out of the murk, sometimes lighter, sometimes lightless entirely. Bouchard walked toward the side entrance of St. Mary’s and entered through the sliding doors.

After pausing to readjust his sight, Bouchard went up to the receptionist and flashed his Interpol badge. "Jason Williams. Brought in six hours ago. Where is he?"

She looked momentarily confused, but he was used to that; sometimes his thick French accent was hard for Americans to make out.

"He's in the third floor’s ICU." Bouchard frowned. Some ICU’s used a particular ultraviolet light spectrum to help against MRSA’s. That was hard on his eyes, making them a peculiar gradated blue color from one side of the iris to the other. Unfortunately he hadn’t brought his usual colored contacts to shield his eyes. Hopefully the fluorescent lighting would be enough of a mask, since fluorescents could make some peoples’ eyes appear bluish-gray.

Up on the third floor he hesitated at the double doors; he could see the Foundation's sigil blazoned across them. Most humans wouldn't give it a second thought.

Literally.

Of course, most humans hadn't been trained to notice them.

This was even worse than a regular ICU. He took a deep breath and pushed his way through, feeling the tingle of the sigils crawl over his skin. 

At least Lin wouldn't be up here. She wouldn't dare, he thought. This should be fast enough: Ask the doctor for the info and get out.

The small ward was empty except for a single room, which had a few deeply worried family members milling in front of its door. Bouchard could hear the hiss and growl of a ventilator, the steady beep of a heart monitor in the background.

Two nurses came out of the door, gesturing for the family members to come in one at a time. A third nurse slid through the group and started towards Bouchard.

The first woman into the room screamed, drawing the two nurses up short -- Bouchard looked toward the room, hearing a deep coughing start up. He started toward the room, passing the third nurse. Who hadn’t startled at the scream.

He spun around and grabbed her arm roughly; she looked up at him, frightened and angry, and Bouchard felt a flash of triumph.

Jiao Lin. He’d crossed three continents, spent eleven months in pursuit, and now he had her.

~~~

"I see her, Mr. Reese. Agent Bouchard has her."

"So are they fighting? Any weapons?"

"They appear to just be staring at each other. No, Ms. Lin has pulled away from him and is going toward the stairwell." Finch made a small tsk. "She has disappeared. She went through the Foundation doors, turned right, and I lost her. Nothing on any of the cameras."

"What's Bouchard doing now? And how's the patient?"

"The Agent is just standing there, looking down at his hand. Mr. Williams, however, appears to have experienced an unexpected revival."

Finch could hear Reese breathing softly. "So she really is stealing something imperceptible to normal humans, then returning it?"

"Yes, it seems. Thievery of that kind would explain why Agent Bouchard is after her. As to why the Machine gave us both of their numbers… well, consider what would happen if he did manage to interfere with one of her ‘returns.’”

“If a person’s internal essence is changed or damaged before it’s returned, how can we know why she’s stealing them in the first place?” Reese rolled his shoulders and stepped back further into the shadow of one of the ambulances.

“Personal discussion with the victim, I suppose. Would you be able to get close to Mr. Williams?”

Reese’s teeth gleamed in the darkness. “No problem, Finch.”

~~~

Bouchard interviewed the victim first, who described symptoms that Bouchard had heard many times before: feeling something wrenched out of him by the roots, ripped open, and later dropped back into his body. Family members reported seeing him drop to the ground earlier in the day, but they had thought it was cardiac arrest. 

The doctors had no reason to suspect anything else. Except, of course, for one: Every major hospital had at least one doctor who was secretly a Foundation agent, trained to recognize anomalous activity and, especially, the victims of such anomalies. Certainly he'd already alerted the Foundation to an aether-stealer on the loose; Bouchard had to move fast if he wanted to catch Lin before more agents arrived. 

Walking back towards the double doors, Bouchard saw one of the doctors enter. He stopped the man with one hand raised. "Are you the attending physician to Jason Williams?"

The doctor's light blue eyes swept him up and down, then he smiled. Bouchard could see immediately that the man's facial expression was just a mask, showing nothing of what was underneath. But… there was something even stranger about this man. Just above the neck of the man’s scrubs, there was a dull patch of skin. To a normal human it would look like a skin graft or healed over burn mark. Bouchard could see how washed out it looked, though, and his own skin prickled, a coil of nausea turning in his stomach.

This could be the Foundation’s plant inside the hospital. A doctor, he would have access to all the floors, all the patients. But an agent of the Foundation, ah, he wouldn’t normally be carrying an anomalous object. There was one branch, though, darkest of the dark, that carried such items without detection by either the other branches of the Foundation, or by the talented populace.

Bouchard took a step back.

"Just came in for my shift,” the man said easily. “Haven't read the notes yet. Are you a family member?" 

"No, I'm investigating a possible crime." Bouchard flipped open his Interpol badge, and continued. “An Asian woman came through here. Did you see her?"

The doctor raised his eyebrows. "Yes. One of the nurses just left." He gestured towards Bouchard's hand. "Did she drop that?"

He brought up his open palm. A knotted string lay across it, a dirty brownish-red color. "Dropped it, no. The nurse pushed this into my hand right before she left."

The doctor reached forward to touch it, but there was a sudden crackle and the string convulsed. Both men straightened and looked at each other intently. "That shouldn't be possible in here," the doctor breathed, then jerked his head towards the doors behind him. Bouchard nodded, coiled the string in his hand, and followed the doctor out of the ICU. Not Foundation, Bouchard breathed. I may just survive this.

Once they were out the doors, the doctor touched his elbow and guided them down to a service entrance at the side of the hospital.

~~~

Reese retrieved his jacket from inside a laundry cart and exchanged it for the scrubs he had put on over his pants and shirt. Bouchard stepped back and watched him narrowly.

“You are not a physician here. Nor are you Foundation."

Turning, he gave the agent a lopsided smile. "Not anymore, I'm not." He looked down at Bouchard’s hand. "So, you know what that string is?"

Bouchard eyed Reese warily. "I have an idea." He stopped. "But I, I am not sure."

"There's someone I know who can identify it. Want to take a ride?"

Pursing his lips, Bouchard nodded sharply. "If you have the contact, I am happy to meet with them."

Reese turned toward the brightly-lit street a block away and tapped his earpiece. "Finch?"

“If you mean me, Mr. Reese, I am gratified by your confidence. However, I don't think any analysis I could perform would be of use."

"I was thinking of Townsend."

There was silence, then Reese could hear a sigh. "I'll call him. Meet me at his place."

Reese heard Bouchard muttering under his breath. "What was that?" he asked.

"American electronics. We at Interpol will not catch up to your comms for at least two years. It is disgraceful."

Reese smiled and hailed a cab.

~~~

“So,” said Reese, “that was unexpected.”

Finch continued to glare, tight-lipped, at Bouchard, who was literally looking down his nose at the shorter man.

Suddenly turning away from the annoying Frenchman, Finch spoke sharply. “You both know what this means. Mr. Reese, please arrange for your departure. I will have a representative meet you at LaGuardia to stave off the Foundation’s inspectors. Agent Bouchard and I have our own tasks.” He stomped his way over to the towncar, uneven gait notwithstanding.

Reese's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Good luck with that," he told Bouchard, and turned to hail a cab.

Bouchard walked around the town car, opened the door, and gave a tired grunt as he slid in. "That Townsend, he is a strange one."

Finch didn't look at him. "Nevertheless, he is a reliable source of information. Ms. Lin's amulet-cum-recordkeeper-cum-tracker-of-her-targets was well-designed and difficult to crack. That he was able to untangle it so quickly is a testament to his skill."

“And yours, what is yours? You did not know what had happened to the string, but you knew what Townsend was talking about.”

Finch turned his whole body to glare at him. “My particular skill, Agent, goes in the other direction: I can take any anomalous object or weapon and tell you exactly what it will do and how to activate it. I cannot take the end result and tell you what has caused it.” Finch sniffed. “The string is case in point. I had no idea what created the string... but I do know that if you pull on both ends of the string, you will move on an x-y grid based on the different knots you have made on the string.” 

Bouchard frowned. “But now you do know. And I do not like what it told us."

Finch's lips tightened. "The fact that the Foundation hasn't noticed you yet shows that you know how to work with circumstances you dislike." Bouchard stiffened, but Finch continued. “With the information Mr. Townsend extracted from her string, I will be able to give you her current and future locations."

Both men were silent for a moment. “Did you suspect?” Finch asked.

“No. For three months she has been taking the interior of the peoples, but we did not know what she did with them."

Finch snorted. "Well, as far as the courts are concerned she did nothing. But since the kidnapping of her daughter can be tied to coercion, her sentence for the concurrent art thefts will hopefully be considerably reduced. If we can keep her away from the Foundation."

"But..."

"I know. The very ability that made her valuable to the real criminals means, itself, that she would be detained indefinitely if the Foundation finds her. Mr. Reese and I will be working on that issue."

They continued in silence until entering the safehouse. "A good address," said Bouchard, looking through the tall windows at the night view of the city.

Finch turned to observe him, then flicked off the lights and walked over to the fireplace, which stretched from one side of the room to the other. He flicked the gas switch and the large space was bathed with flickering golden and blue light. Bouchard looked at him, surprised.

"Yes, this house is in a reputable area. I particularly enjoy the firelight here. It can be relaxing to the eyes." Finch looked at him blandly and continued to the kitchen.

He pulled open the door of the dishwasher, which rose up until it was parallel to the counter, and when he pulled on either side of the door a large screen popped up. Underneath were a keyboard, two mice, and some additional controls Bouchard didn't recognize. Finch pulled over one of the breakfast table's chairs and sat down, stiffly, while the system powered up. Then he stretched his fingers and set them on the keys.

After a few moments of typing, Finch turned to regard Bouchard, who’d been strangely quiet. The man was staring at the wall, apparently entranced by the paint color. "Agent?"

He started and looked over at Finch. "Do you know there are patterns underneath the paint? In the... stucco?"

"Wall texture. Yes, I know. It's only visible when the firelight plays across the wall. So, Jiao Lin?"

Bouchard frowned at the wall, then walked over to Finch and leaned down toward the screen. Finch twisted to look at him. "I've analyzed the Book's prediction, and it puts Lin at East 99th and Madison, West 121st and Lenox, and LaSalle and Broadway, within the next 36 hours. Her path of travel suggests that she'll be at the Lenox intersection before the other two. Right now, she's here" -- he tapped the screen -- "and, unless she has some anomalous method of travel, she can't get to that intersection before you do... so long as you leave immediately. Here’s your phone and earpiece.”

Bouchard slid a glance at Finch. “Who is to say I will not take this telephone back to Europe when we are done and it will be copied? Hm?”

Finch’s nostrils flared. “Oh, I doubt that any lab outside the U.S. could manage to reverse-engineer that particular model. Besides, all of my equipment contain certain... failsafes." His face was completely expressionless as he let that sink in. “I will leave it to you to imagine what those might be.”

Silently Bouchard took the earpiece and pressed it in, then took the phone. On the screen, Lin’s current and future positions were already up on the GPS.

Abruptly Bouchard spoke. “What do you think I should do when I find her?

“Depends on you, of course. But I suppose that allowing her to touch you would be unwise. A breathtaking understatement, I know." Finch sat again and turned in the chair to look at Bouchard. “But even without the string, there may still be enough threads on her garments to cause not only your spectral innards to be ripped from you, but also your aethereal spine to be cracked open." Finch blinked at him. “Even if the Czechs are not able to collect it themselves, spinal fluid is a precious black-market item, and I would imagine you would find its removal unpleasant.”

Savoir-tout Américain, Bouchard thought to himself as he walked to the front door and yanked it open. Il ne sait rien de marcher dans le danger. Pisse-froid petit homme.

Finch smiled and turned back to his computer.

~~~

“No, Agent Bouchard, that is a one-way street. Going the wrong direction. You're not going to be able to make it to Ms. Lin’s next location fast enough." Finch ground his teeth. "You do have an American driver’s license, don't you?"

"Yes, it is for the state of Wyoming. Interpol can get us licenses very fast there, but the one way streets - I do not remember them on the exam."

Finch wished quite desperately that he had kept Reese here, and sent Bouchard after Jiao's daughter. He wished also, less desperately, that he hadn't loaned his towncar to the agent, but rather had gotten him a rental.

“East 99th and Madison. She’ll be there in fourteen minutes.” Finch leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose.

~~~

“Kai, I'm a friend of your mother's. I'm here to take you home.” Reese scooped her up in her arms and they were out of view of the camera in moments.

Finch smiled. “Did you hear that, Agent? I believe that’s your cue.” From the bar’s two surveillance cameras he could see Bouchard and Carter converge on Jiao and Cyril, cuffing them both.

Jiao looked up at Bouchard and the look relief on her face was priceless. I have never had someone so glad that I did arrest them, he thought. Such a strange case.

“Is it clear, Finch?” asked Carter. 

He made sure the Foundation broadband had just enough static to blur incoming data from the four blocks surrounding the bar. “You are good, Detective.”

“Spill,” Carter snapped at Cyril. “Don’t make me frisk you.” She whipped out a small cloth bag covered in sigils and held it open. Cyril’s body arched, and several objects popped out of his pockets, landing in the bag. “All these are anomalies? Any more? I’m still getting a buzz off you.” Cyril grimaced and curled one shoulder inward. Two more objects darted up out of his jacket. Carter looked Cyril over carefully, then nodded to Bouchard.

He smiled grimly. His turn now. With single-minded concentration he met the eyes of each person in the bar, going from one to the next until they were all staring, transfixed, at him. He blinked once, and Carter saw all of them start looking slowly around the bar, seeming to hesitate and gaze at one color after another. "Finch," he said, "they are all looped. Twenty minutes before, twenty minutes after. Can you do the security cameras?

The sound of quick tapping came over Bouchard’s earpiece. "As long as all of them return to their original positions in the bar, it will be fine." Finch hesitated. "I would be interested in seeing more examples of your talent, Agent."

Bouchard looked up at one of the security cameras and tilted his head to the side. "Maybe I would do it, if you tell me about the patterns in the walls of your apartment."

There was silence, then, "Since your car has already been towed from the 11pm – 2am no-parking slot, I am sending another, Agent. With a driver. Detective, are you ready to release Cyril to the Foundation authorities at your Precinct?

Detective Carter looked at Cyril, who appeared to be just as blissed out as the rest of the bar patrons. "Not a problem, Finch. Tell John to keep his head down until he's back in-country." She jerked on Cyril's cuffs and took him out the side entrance.

~~~

Sitting in the back of Finch’s towncar, Bouchard turned to Jiao.

“You know the Foundation wants you,” he said abruptly. She stared down at her hands in her lap, silent.

“I'm getting credit from Interpol for the retrieval of many, many pieces of art from the Czech Republic. Some of them, they were stolen by you as cover for the taking of the peoples’ interiors.”

He turned back to the window and watched the lights of the buildings go by in the night. “The human authorities want you for those thefts of art. But, as far as I know, you have returned every single essence... and all of the art you took, it is going back to the owners.”

Jiao turned and looked at him. “What happens now?”

“Somehow, Finch has made it so you and your daughter are now American citizens. New names, new identities, new histories." He sighed. "San Francisco is your new home. Finch says there are many Chinese groups there, that you will fit in well. And that there are many with anomalous talent with them, who can help you hide. But,” he turned to her, “if you ever take another person, I will enjoy arresting you. Again.”

She smiled hesitantly. "You won't need to even look. I am grateful. You will never have a reason to see me, or Kai, ever again."

Bouchard let out his breath in a huff, but didn't reply. The driver pulled up to the agent’s hotel, and he stepped out into the lights shining through the etched glass doors. Looking back at Jiao, he started to say something, then just closed his mouth, nodded at her, and closed the door behind him.

The car pulled away, and he looked to his right down the sidewalk, alternating patches of dark and light swimming in front of him. They seem to push and pull before his sight, darkness flooding in like the flow of blackened mercury, the light burning hard against it as if from a thousand flickering magnesium flares.

Bouchard did not care for the dark.

~~~

Reese returned to the library three days later with a box of sugary-sweet bear claws, finding Finch working industriously at his computer. "So, what magic are you conjuring up this time?" he asked, gesturing toward the mushroom-like agglomeration of monitors sprouting up from the desk.

Finch swiveled in his chair to frown at him. "Be careful using the "m" word, Mr. Reese. The library is well shielded, but the Foundation never stops looking."

"Human authorities, Foundation authorities. We're between that rock and a hard place, Finch."

"I never said this job would be easy, Mr. Reese." He turned back to one rapidly scrolling screen, pointing toward the bottom. “And while cleaning up after this most recent number, I found a number of caches of anomalous items from the Czech organization. Some I will be sending to the Foundation -- anonymously, of course. The rest will go to various organizations who can best use them. The aethereal spinal fluid itself totals a little over three quarts." Reese whistled, and Finch smiled at the screen. 

“The fluid has already been decanted and is going to various medical research facilities. Did you know that it is an excellent substitute for stem cells?” Finch swiveled around again, sitting up even straighter and looking quite professorial. Reese lifted his eyebrows politely. “Yes, it’s really a marvelous substance, with an astonishing number of applications…”

Reese's head suddenly turned, listening. “Did you hear that?”

Finch looked at Reese, confused. “No, I don't hear anything... Now, the primary constituent of the fluid is..."

Reese lifted a finger. "I'm going to go check that out," he said, and slipped off into the library's stacks.

"I really don't hear anything," Finch said plaintively to the now-empty hall, then turned to his keyboard. “Ah, well. Perhaps he will pick up a book on stem cell research on his way back,” he murmured.

Finch looked down at the stained oak desktop, thinking. He suddenly spun in his chair and scooted forward to pull open one of the lower file cabinet drawers behind him. He pulled out a bottle of window cleaning spray and a handful of shop towels, then groped under the layer of file folders beneath. Very carefully he drew out a dusty cardboard box that had "card catalog handles and labels” written on the side and laid it on his desk.

He opened the little box and pulled out his most recent prize, something to add to all the others he had hidden throughout the library. Briefly, he wondered how many of these anomalous objects Reese had already found. In the cardboard box was a smaller box, dark brown, with a wax seal on it. He stroked his finger gently across the seal, melting it, and the lid opened to reveal an even smaller box within. This one was lavender with shimmering yellow daisies on it, and unfolded like a little coin purse under his hand. He looked closely at it and the glow inside the box reflected off his glasses. The light was bright like the daisies, and moved in ripples across his face.

During the “reallocation” of the aetherial fluid to various institutions, one tiny vial had been misplaced during an inventory taken in Dresden, Germany. That vial had made its way through three dead drops, multiple diplomatic pouches, and one easily-bribed pickpocket who mailed it from Charlottesville to a PO Box in New York. The box had then been picked up by a bike courier and delivered to one of the waitresses at a nondescript little diner, who laid it down on a table next to a plate of eggs benedict the following morning. She received an even more generous tip than usual.

Sitting at his desk back at the Library, Finch rolled the little ampoule in his hand, observing the changing colors within the swirling fluid. He smiled in satisfaction.

One never knew when such a thing might come in handy.


End file.
